I’m officially going to kill the JATC blog as it simply lacks relevance anymore.  Beth the Web Goddess has commandeered flywithmedesigns.com for me and is in the process (between race meets, lure courses, and her real job) of formatting and moving “stuff” to that location.  I anticipate that flywithmedesigns.com will be the homebase for my vintage clothing and jewelry project, as well as a blog when I have the chance.  Thanks for your patience.

Jenn

Hang on, before I start this, I need to run to the bookshelf…

…okay, I’m back.  I have with me The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, a copy that is older than I am, as it lacks an ISBN  number.  Although old  and undated, I’m pretty sure things haven’t changed much.  Romeo and Juliet are still suicidal teenagers, Twelfth Night still has more cross-dressing than the Seattle Amtrak station, and MacBeth’s witches haven’t changed the recipe.

But can I find the ingredient list?  Here’s the dagger I see before me.  Not far enough into the play, the cooking segment is nearer the end.  Cats haven’t brought in a dagger that I’m aware of, and if they do, I’m leaving.  Here we go, Act IV.

“Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d”  Yeah, if Bill’s cats only mew’d thrice he was lucky.  My two brinded cats mew’d a lot.  Especially when they’re hungry.

Poisoned Toad Entrails.  Haven’t seen those yet, thank goodness.

Fillet of a Fenny snake. Tara did catch a snake when we were out walking, prior to her fractured metatarsal and spay surgery.  A huge garter snake, nearly a foot long.  She just pounced into the bushes and came out with this snake.  Scared the jeebers out of both of us.

Eye of Newt. The Pacific Red salamander came in earlier this week, courtesy of one of the feline friends.  I named her Circe and put her in the terrarium with the frog.

Toe of Frog. The cats brought in the frog last week, as I pointed out in a previous blog.  I called Reptile Guy at the local pet shop when Circe turned up and asked if the two could live together.  He advised that the frog might eat the salamander.  Since Persephone is two inches long, max, and Circe is four or five without her tail, I’m thinking this isn’t going to be a problem.

Wool of Bat.  What the hell is “wool of bat” anyway?  Wool of sheep, okay.  Wool over my eyes, sure.  Wool of bat?  The cats have certainly brought in  their fair share of bats, see The Dark Night.  The last time LJ kitty brought in a bat, Rob threw them both out the back door, LJ still holding his prize.  At any rate, this ingredient isn’t a problem, if I can figure out what it is.

Tongue of dog. Ain’t no way  anyone’s taking out a dog tongue around here.  Although, the Skull of the Unknown Mammal could possibly be a baby coyote.  How about “skull of dog”?

The rest of the recipe isn’t so easy.  Adders, blind-worms, lizards, and howlets have yet to make their way through the dog door.  I don’t want to see a scale of dragon or gall of goat.

Unfortunately, we seem to be on track to brew up a really cool charm soup.   Maybe.

By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes…

J

Completely unsure of myself today.  I don’t know what to write.  Some days that happens.  I don’t worry too much anymore.  It’s a peaceful day here at the zoo.  Everyone is appropriately housed and exercised.  Love my zoo.  But I still dream of that Aegean Island.  It is an idyllic and unlikely dream.  And it is my mother’s fault altogether.  She’s the one who gave me “My Family and Other Animals” to read.  I’ve never recovered from Gerald Durrell.  Jenn and the City, with her Christian Laboutin heels and Hermes scarf really wants to be watching terrestial invertebrates through a loupe.  A very confused existence.

So if I vanish from the face of the earth, you may find me on my island, or possibly the Amalfi coast.  I will have a whippet, and be attempting to raise chickens.  Shouldn’t be hard to find.

J

Persephone

Yesterday the cats, or the dogs brought in a frog.  Bats, chickadees, frogs, whatever.  (Actually, on my re-read, it occurs that we’re collecting the recipe for MacBeth’s witches brew).  As long as they don’t bring in a possum (Travis Whippet tried when I lived in Bellingham).  Since I was unsure if it was injured, I went and got the White House Black Market box that the chickadee occupied.  Thought better of that.  I turned out Ringo, the lonely goldfish into a salad bowl and put frogger in the fishbowl.  Then I hauled my Princess self off to the pet supply shop.

First stop:  fish department.  Purchases – one 10-gallon tank kit, one wrecked car sculpture (in lieu of plastic castle), and one calico goldfish as a companion for Ringo.  Calliope, named for my favorite of the muses.

Second stop:  Reptile/amphibian department.  Purchases – one terrarium, one package dehydrated moss, one water bowl, and one heat light. And a whole slew of flightless fruit flies.  Apparently frogs eat flightless fruit flies.  These little critters gross me out.  Love turtles, love frogs, love snakes.  Fruit flies, not so much.

Home.  Set up aquarium.  Get Ringo and Calliope set up in their new digs.  Get the frog (originally named Circe) set up in the terrarium and accidentally dump ten years worth of flightless fruit flies in with her.  Fruit flies, not only creepy, but stupid, proceed to drown in the water bowl.  Circe immediately burrows into the moss and won’t come out, prompting a name change to Persephone.

Finally, with everyone happily re-homed, it is time to set off for the vet with the three canis whippetus.  Morgan needs a rabies shot, Nike needs a liver re-check, and Tara still has a gamey leg.  Results – Morgan in perfect health except for his missing “part”.  Nike’s liver re-check is NORMAL!  Hooray!  Major stressor off my life.  Tara, however has a hairline fracture of her fifth metatarsal.  Bad news for her is that she must spend the next two weeks on crate rest.  Bad news for me is that whippets HATE crate rest, and now she’s plotting to kill me.  I’m pretty sure there’s a hit out on me.

It’s tough being a princess these days.

My two weekly periodical subscriptions arrived on schedule this weekend.  US Weekly and The New Yorker.  I’m now aware that a California coyote ate Jessica Simpson’s Malti-poo for lunch, and in apropos juxtaposition, that the new “it” pet for suburbanites legally allowed, is the chicken.  Really, the only point in that sentence was to see if I could put “apropos” and “juxtaposition” not only in the same line, but next to each other.  Literary success!  Wile E. no longer needs to drop an anvil on the roadrunner, he can just eat Foghorn Leghorn.  Or even better, Scrappy Doo.  I hated that annoying little dipsh*t.   Total shark jumping moment for an otherwise GREAT cartoon.  Anyway, such is the dichotomy of my daily life.

Yesterday I reached the conclusion that the automotive department at Fred Meyer wins the “most boring” award for places to hang out.  The most interesting thing in the FM automotive department is the Tinkerbell fuzzy dice.  Ya gotta love Tink.  Not only does she have atty-tude, but she’s also the only fictional female character annihilated by Disney that knows how to SHUT UP.

After becoming ADD in automotive I wandered over to the furniture area.  Gave a good hard look at the entertainment centers, but they failed to entertain me.  Why would anyone spend good money on something that doesn’t function as advertised?

Next stop, toys.  Much more up my alley.  I collected a pink Nerf football and went back to automotive with the intention of trying out my best Brett Favre.  Unfortunately, the automotive mission now involved a couple of FM employees, and it seemed really unfair to bean one of them in the back of the head.  Rob, accustomed to shopping with me, would have known how to respond to the audibles, but the FM guys?  Probably not so much.  So, I went back to  toys and got a soccer ball and some orange plastic cones and set up a dribbling course in the aisle.

Playing soccer at FM does two things:

1.  You learn it’s hard to play soccer in heels.

2.  People look at you kind of funny.

A nice young man of about, maybe, eight thought I was really cool and wanted to set up some goal cages.  We were trying to plan suitable construction when the plot was foiled by his parents and the appearance of the automotive contingent.

People have no idea how to have fun.

Saturday’s Miscellaneous Unfiltered Comments:

The Skull of the Unknown Mammal found a home in a Kerr canning jar from Ben Franklin (the only place where you can buy ONE canning jar rather than a dozen.  When I need a dozen canning jars for rotting animal corpses it will be time to move to Montana.

Turning on the t.v. to CMT first thing on a rainy morning will counter-act every anti-depressant known to mankind.

This morning I put the dirty clothes directly in the dryer.  Efficient, eco-friendly, and decidedly lacking in caffeine.

“Property Ladder” is worse than CMT.  Where do they find these idiots?  If the History channel lets me down, I’m turning off the t.v. and turning on my Intergalactic Princess music.

Odysseus on the History Channel simply makes me want to follow my fantasy life on an Aegean Island.  I can live with that.

Tara is still on three legs.  Not good.  Crate rest and ice.  Vet on Monday.

Maybe CMT isn’t as depressing in Montana.

Nike knocked over the garbage bin and unlocked the lid twice yesterday.

I like Homer.  Never let your guard down.  And don’t eat lotus flowers.  Good thing they didn’t have guns.

Chantix:  You can stop smoking, but you may turn into a homicidal maniac.  With nausea and nightmares.  You gotta hate nightmares.

Italian mob bosses have taken up crocodiles as pets.  I like this idea.  No more concrete shoes, just a little push into the pool…

Nothing worse than a pissed off Cyclops.  Particularly if you need your boat to get home, and the Cyclops is son of Poseidon.

Unless maybe it’s a whippet bitch confined to crate-rest.

Dell is sending someone out to fix the laptop – no euthanasia!  Hooray.

Enough rambling for one Saturday.

Cheers,

J

My beloved six-month old laptop is scheduled for euthanasia today.  I must box it up, and send it back to Dell.  If it would fit, I’d put it in the White House Black Market box that boded so ill for the shoe and the chickadee.  If I didn’t have to send it to Dell, I’d just bury it in the garden with the bird.  My expectation is that Dell will send me a new laptop.

Before the Dignitas, I took said laptop to Doogie Howser, IT Geek, and had him do a brain transplant onto my desktop CPU.  This was a grand plan, as it would mean all my data was in one place.  Writings, photos, whole pieces of my former life as a rising Intergalactic Princess that reside on the CPU will be available.  The operation went off without a hitch until we discovered that my desktop monitor is also dead as a chickadee or a stiletto.  The metaphors for death here abound.

Now, Rob wants to give me HIS monitor, so he can get a wide screen for work use.  That’s fine, but it will take approximately six months for him to find the time and energy to make this purchase.  Leaving me with a CPU.  Period.  My life in a box, with no key.  I’m wondering though, if Doogie can fix it up so I can connect the laptop monitor to the CPU.  That might work temporarily.

Too bad the shoe and the chickadee weren’t so lucky.

Update:  The Skull of the Unknown Mammal still is waiting for a jar….gotta remember to do that today.

Cheers,

J

Remember I said the chickadees would be with us all winter if I didn’t forget to feed them?  True, but they also need to develop some sort of survival sense.  Just because they get free food doesn’t mean they somehow magically ascended to the top of the food chain.

Case in point.  I was minding my own biz-ness in the shower yesterday when a Commotion Ensued in the laundry room.  I can hear through the wall scuffling and shouting.  Since it’s not normal for Commotions to Ensue while I’m in the shower, I hustled my clean self out to kitchen to see what was up.

I first notice Rob shouting and cussing and generally in a state of enraged agitation.  I second notice the feathers.  Lots and lots of feathers.  Stan is trying to crawl under the DVD holder, LJ is right behind Stan, Tara is behind LJ, and Morgan is pretending to be in on the action.  Nike hasn’t gotten out of bed yet.  Rob is trying to clear the room of mammals, and said mammals, being more nimble and determined, aren’t going. Rob throws his hands in the air, and informs me that he’s going to take a shower.  Why do men, when confronted with uncontrolled chaos, retreat to the bathroom?

It isn’t hard to piece together this story.  Stan caught a bird.  Stan brought the bird in.  The bird is under the DVD rack.  Stan wants his birdie back.  LJ and Tara want in on the action.  Morgan is clueless and Nike doesn’t care.  I pick up Stan and LJ and throw them outside.  Tara and Morgan get the boot behind them.  Note that I manage this without saying a word, no shouting or expletives.  I get some plastic baggies to cover my hands and move the DVD rack.  The Chickadee is in shock, but has no external injuries.  I debate for a few minutes whether to wring its neck or let him try to recover.  Since he’s breathing normally and has range of motion in his legs and wings, I opt for recovery.  The bird goes in a shoebox in the spare room and the murderous hoard gets let back in.  Feathers get sucked up in vacuum.  By the time Rob is done showering, peace and calm reign.

Alas, no happy ending yesterday.  Mr. Chickadee expired within a few minutes of residence in the shoebox.  (Programming note – shoebox from the White House Black Market shoes chewed up by Mogey two days ago).  Shoulda known – bad luck shoebox.  I debated adding the bird to my skull collection but decided I didn’t have the same relationship with him that I had with the Skull of the Unknown Mammal, and instead gave him a formal burial at the bottom of the garden.

Bye bye birdie – be a lesson to your friends.

It must be fall.  The sun is shining but nothing ever gets actually dry.  The whippet boys would LIKE to go out and lay in the sun, but the wet grass has them demanding their lawyers and threatening class action lawsuits on behalf of wussy male whippets everywhere.  The T-girl, raised in Minnesota, could care less about the weather conditions, and throws fits of  joy whenever the word “outside” is spoken, regardless of rain, snow, sleet, hail, or locusts.

Logistical issues with the Skull of the Unknown Mammal.  It won’t fit in the pasta sauce jar.  I inspected the refrigerator for a suitable substitute, and all I came up with was an enormous container of Salsa Verde that’s been skulking in the back behind the seedless blackberry jam and the yellow mustard for the duration of its sentence.  Moral dilemma – the green salsa is probably still good, and it would be a waste to throw it out, but the chances of ever finishing a ginormous jar of salsa verde  is right up there with one needing a second bottle of worcestershire sauce in ones lifetime.  Farewell, little green chiles.

Really not much interesting to report today.  I’ve a new idea for a vintage necklace that I just need to get some connectors to finish.  And the first birds arrived at the feeder today.  My friends the black-capped chickadees, Poecile atricapillus, who will be with us all winter if I don’t starve them to death…

Maybe they’d like some Salsa Verde.

Cheers,

J

It’s almost official – Fall has returned to Snohomish.  My first clue was waking up to Noah-worthy rainfall, my second was that everyone I  know spent the day at the Husky – USC  football game, and is probably going to catch pneumonia.

I love this season.  I’d give it a big sloppy kiss if I could.  Fall here demonstrates Darwinism at its finest.  Everything that survives the rain, the gray, the mushrooms, moss, and slugs, the toughest birds who can make it through the next months without my bird-feeder, and humans who can make it to Thanksgiving without going insane from Seasonal Affective Disorder or catching pneuomonia will probably survive the winter here.  Pretty soon the shoe tree will shed its leaves, and we’ll be able to see the dozens of pairs of sneakers that make up its non-deciduous ornamentation.

Speaking of shoes, I need to get off a letter to White House Black Market -

Dear Sir or Madam:  I respectfully request your consideration in sending me, immediately, one individual size 7 1/2 Quennie style stiletto shoe.  Preferably the left-foot one.  The right-foot shoe of the pair formerly owned by myself is in fine form, residing in the closet.  Regrettably, the left-foot shoe was devoured at breakfast-time by my seven-month old whippet puppy.  As these are my favorite pair of shoes to wear with jeans, you must see that it is imperative that I replace it immediately.  If at all possible, since I only need one shoe, it would be appreciated if it could be obtained for half the original purchase price.  Thank you for your attention in this matter.

Call me negative, but I don’t think that’s going to get me very far.

I also need to find a jar for the cleaning and storage of the Skull of the Unknown Mammal.   I should think a spaghetti sauce jar would do the trick nicely, so I suppose we’ll be having pasta for dinner tomorrow.  A grand thing to plan one’s meals around.

Mental note:  Rob did not like the Abby/NCIS pigtail look.  Remember this for next time I’m ticked off about something.  However, it did seem to attract attention of decidedly non-fabulous guys.  Since being hit on by a dude in a plaid shirt and Billy-Bob teeth is not my idea of fun, I guess I’ll leave the Abby look for at-home PMS-y days.

Cheers,

J